Day 1
I don’t believe in the supernatural. I don’t believe that the things that go bump in the night are anything even close to a ghoul or goblin. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want them to be real. I desperately want them to be real.
What I wouldn’t give to come face to face with a swamp monster or a vampire. But it won’t happen, because those things do not exist. Now I know what you’re probably saying right now.
“What about fae, witches, and the stuff that’s been happening over and over since the dawn of storytelling began?”
To that I say, again, I wish it was real.
So I guess that’s why I’m here. I read Double Walker by Michael Conrad, Noah Bailey, and Taylor Esposito about the “real encounter” that two tourists had in Scotland. Both of them swore to me that it was real. So I decided to go. I decided to find out for myself if there is a world inside those puddles. A world that I can’t see.
Things haven’t gotten off to a great start. At every turn, the town’s locals try avoiding the journalist who wants to ask them about what happened. It’s okay though, I’d be avoidant of a US journalist too.
Outside of the town is a different story altogether. Plenty of folks tell me about the faeries and creatures that live beyond the confines of modern society, hiding in the shadows of places we’re not allowed to be. The skinwalkers and such. I think most of them agree Nessie is a myth. I did visit Loch Ness, as any good tourist does, but the thick fog rolling off the water did seem a bit more uncanny than what I’m used to.
Once I got back to the bed and breakfast I was staying at, I found out it was under new management… the former owner had been brutally murdered.
I went to bed with the bathroom light on and a sleep playlist from my phone trying desperately to lull me to sleep.
Day 2
Most of my day was spent just trying to get anyone to talk to me about the recent events. Luck wasn’t on my side. There are far too many unaccounted for gruesome deaths for no one to have seen anything or have any answers.
I was getting frustratingly nowhere questioning the townsfolk, so I thought maybe it was best to clear my head with a hike and find some clean crisp air. The Old Man of Storr they call it. Something about a really large man or god or something that laid down and eventually made these vast rocky hills. They say the fae have been kept busy feasting on his flesh, which is why you don’t often see them.
Again, I didn’t believe it and so far, I’d come no closer to finding any proof. It all seemed rather made up. The air was quite thin when I finally reached the peak. I stood for some time staring at the horizon. All that I could see was a rather large bird in the distance. I don’t know bird species all that well, but whatever this one was, it looked rather sickly. I don’t know if it was the air, but it looked like its stomach was split open. It had to be the air.
Right?
On my walk back to the Bed & Breakfast, I felt as if someone was watching me.
I slept with the bathroom light on and my sleep playlist playing on my phone.
Day 3
My final day in Scotland. I thought I may as well spend it in the pub. I asked my friend Cargill if he knew of one in my area, and was swiftly directed to The Mangled Stag. For a majority of the day, I sat away from the bar itself to listen to the people coming and going. Not a word was uttered about the murders.
Were they avoiding talking about it because I was here? People died and no one has even whispered about it. Everything about this is so strange.
The bar was rather unremarkable. It was clearly aged, but in a good way. As if the culture and history of these people were soaked deep into the wood. Strangely though, the bathroom was entirely redone. Brand new. The floor seemed to have been recently ripped up for some reason.
After guzzling enough pints of courage, I sat myself at the bar and asked the bartender to tell me about the area; to humor a tourist with a story about the local monsters.
I was drunk, but I could see the hesitation in his face. I could see his reluctance to tell me, but with the amount of money I dropped, maybe he began to feel sorry for me.
He told me about something called a “Trow;” a small plump and shy little miscreant that broke into homes as people slept to steal things. They live in trowie knowes, which are just like mounds of dirt. I made a joke that they were Scottish hobbits. Not sure he found it funny. I thanked him for the tale and excused myself to return to the B&B to get some sleep for my early flight.
I slept with the bathroom light on and my sleep playlist playing on my phone.
My eyes opened as I heard something scrape harshly on my bedside. I quickly ran the “there are no bumps in the night” mantra in my head as I could hear my music being muffled. A small misshapen and wrinkled hand clasped around my phone as it sang quietly to itself. I tried to keep my eyes as tightly closed as I could, but I just had to see.
From between my nearly shut eyelids, I watched as this thing used its free hand to drag itself away from my nightstand. Its face was contoured and grotesque, but it didn’t look angry. It seemed to love the music playing from the phone. The bartender had mentioned that trows loved music… that they’d often lure musicians to their dens. It started bouncing on it’s eerie legless body towards the door. This had to be a nightmare. I closed my eyes. None of this was real.
Day 4
I couldn’t find my phone when I woke up.